as I’m actually working on stewing up some dried corn for our fourth (yes, fourth) Thanksgiving. Our first was in October, Canadian-style. I didn’t get any pictures of that meal, beyond the spectacular pumpkin pie I made:

Never have both crust and custard come out so beautifully. And it was tasty! So tasty I was generous enough to give some to Greg, who is, in point of fact, a pie heretic for claiming that the crust “doesn’t matter,” and is only to “hold the filling.” Suuure, and I bet you don’t think the outward forms of the sacraments matter, either? All for liturgical dance and tambourines and felt banners, are you?

Bet you didn’t think I was going to go from pastry to liturgy. Oh well.

Second Thanksgiving was at a fancy Italian restaurant with my parents, who were in Toronto for American Thanksgiving.

Third Thanksgiving was cooked by Tristan and me, chez moi, and I didn’t flip out once about hosting my parents with two square feet of counter space. We made it easy by making a crisp instead of a pie, and some favorites (stuffing, creamed onions) had to go out the window due to time constraints. Alas!

I didn’t get a picture of that meal, either, but here’s my lunch of leftovers:

Chicken, gravy, pickled beets, tea, and… what’s the yellow mushy stuff, you ask? Only the best holiday food known to North American man, which we have always called “Cope’s Corn,” or, more technically, stewed, fire-dried, sweet corn. My great grandmother used to dry sweet corn on her wood-burning stove to save it for winter, but now that gas and electric (more heresy) have come into vogue, most central Pennsylvanians of the sort that gave birth to my mother buy their dried corn mail-order from John Cope’s company. It is sweet and smokey and creamy and delicious and tastes good with turkey. I did a quick internet search, and ordering information, some articles on its history, and recipes can be found here, if you are intrigued— and it’s one of the only ethnic traditions my Welsh/Swiss/(German, but we don’t talk about that in the war era)/Pennsylvania Dutch family has preserved.

Moving from Thanksgiving to Advent, I haven’t yet found a way of making myself an advent wreath, but Mama did find me a beautiful (and very medievalist-appropriate) advent calendar at the Met. I thought I’d hang it under the picture of Mary, in a devotional spirit:

And, yes, I have post-Advent plans for that nail hole; wait and see!

You can’t really see in the picture, but it’s a wonderfully high-quality image of the manuscript: you can even see where letters from the other side of the parchment are showing through.

Finally, if you’ve read this far, here’s a picture of Charlotte to reward you:

I’ve been meaning to start posting every Wednesday, as a way to keep myself “in the blogging game,” as it were, but I’m entirely exhausted by 1) a cold that has moved into my lungs and 2) the fact that Tristan and I spent three hours working on our Wedding registry and are so indecisive (and the store is so poorly laid out), we’re still far from done. Why can’t I find flatware I love? Oh, why?

Anyway, here are my requests:

1) Dear department stores: please locate your household linens (towels, sheets, etc cetera) near natural light sources. I have no idea what the actual color of our bath towels is, and that bothers me.

2) Dear neighbors: it is 10:51. Please cease playing techno.

The Kilted Baker and I have been working on wedding registries, and I’d just like to put the following out there: just because a famous designer’s name is on it, doesn’t mean that it’s tasteful.

If you don’t believe me, please note a certain designer’s line for Crane’s Paper. I guess it’s cute, but where is that $480 dollars going to put you if you have to write a sympathy note? Running out on an errand for more writing paper, that’s where.

This in no way has to do, of course, with the fact that I kinda hate the crystal by aforementioned designer that I felt a little pressured into registering for. I need to get better about speaking up! I actually have to e-mail or call our wedding florist to say, “uhm, I was too shy to point these things out, but…can you give me some brighter colors for the roses in those centerpieces?” At least she’s excited about our wildflower desires. “It’s so much fun to work without orchids!”

Of course, we did register for china with another fashion designer’s name on it, but I love it: Vera Wang/Wedgwood Vera Lace. You will all need to come over for a (very tasteful) meal once we have a home together, and eat off it.

IN OTHER RANTS: Just because you *can* monogram it, doesn’t mean you should. Things that can be tastefully monogrammed: letter paper, handkerchiefs, luggage, the occasional very subtle piece of jewelry, fine silver, guest towels-if-you’re-that-kind-of-person (maybe; check with your local authority before confirming your order). Things that should NOT be monogrammed: evening bags, glassware, travel mugs (although this is tempting because we have some mug-stealing finks in our common room– maybe if only done very, very, tastefully, and even with the toile, I’m agnostic), anything that you might want to pass down to the next baby, underwear (please can we stop with the “Bride” panties thing? Please?), and flipflops. But why are you wearing flipflops, anyway? I sternly judge you.. I do love this umbrella even though it is in terrible taste, for reason of abovementioned finks. Yes, I’m terribly excited about acquiring a new letter to my name, but you don’t see me going around emblazoning everything from here to Etobicoke with A. S .H (or, for the wedding, A. S. T.), do you?

(I do kinda want one of these with my married monogram, maybe with the wedding date on the back, to wear in my newlywed glee…especially now that my miraculous medal is getting me attention from creepy Catholic men.)

Things like this are why our landfills are overflowing and we can’t keep money in our bank accounts. When Kolya and I stayed with his friends in England, they were just done hosting a friend’s wedding. The bride came downstairs wearing a pair of overalls with “Mrs Weasley” (not her real name) embroidered down the back. “My family bought it for me!” she exclaimed to our astonished hostess (K. and I were warming ourselves by the stove and waiting for tea). “Where did they get such a thing?” asked Mrs. G. “America!” announced the mother of the bride. “Ah,” said Mrs. G. “of course.”

While we’re here, can we also place a moratorium on unity candles, unity water-pouring, and unity colored-sand bottles that look like a state fair craft project. We get it! You’re united! The unity object doesn’t make that happen any more than it already has!

On another topic entirely, since we’re going to be splurging on the bed we buy for our(!) home: wouldn’t you be worried to set up your home with a bed named for Guinevere?

I’ve recently got it in my head (and am obsessing over) 1) getting silhouettes done of the KB and I to frame and put on the library mantle in our reception venue, and then in our(!) home, and 2) going to the East Coast in the New Year to see my half-dozen or so friends living in the NYC area.

I need to get a haircut before I go to the UBC conference to give my paper.

It would be easier to keep my hair tidy if somebody didn’t always go around stealing my hair ties.

That same somebody killed her first mouse on Tuesday. She pouted for hours after I took it away from her (it was quite dead and mysteriously flat).

That same somebody is glaring at me to go to bed, so I guess that’s the end of the ranting (for now).

(With random photos of my duck-roasting experiments this weekend, taken by Tristan)

(All good cooking experiments start with construction projects. In this case, to make up for my lack of a roasting rack.)

Five Things I am supposed to care about as a Bride, but about which I really don’t give a damn:

1) Whether or not the stamps on the invitations are hand-cancelled. Really? This is an issue for people?

2) Late-night snacks at the reception. Three courses isn’t enough food?

(I have very little counter space)

3) Doing any sort of grand entrance into the reception. We can only seat 80 guests, and I’m wearing a Big White Dress (BWD). I think everyone realize we’re there.

(Steaming is important for fat removal)

4) Clever escort cards (for those not drowning in wedding planning at the moment, that’s code for “place cards”) or table numbers other than actual numbers. Granted, T. and I considered naming tables after books that had been important in our relationship, but we realized that bonding over Kristen Lavransdottir might not seem like a good omen to our guests (let alone being seated at a table with her name).

5) Favors. T. and I have both been to too many weddings where the hosts were left with boxes and boxes of tea candles, etc. at the end of the night. Nobody wants a tea candle; we’re giving a charitable donation somewhere instead (probably a Leukemia foundation).

Happy Feast of our Lady of the Rosary, everyone! Remember to raise a glass to the Austrian troops.

(Just so you know I’m not dead)

1) Collect addresses for save-the-dates.
2) Make appointment with priest to discuss liturgy.
3) Book block of hotel rooms.
4) Ask the bridesmaids their views on the modesty of their dresses. (Are spaghetti straps okay? What about with a shawl?)
5) Address save-the-dates.
6) Buy a bottle of gin.
7) Call photographers.

Thus far, number 6 is the most important item on the list.

So, my hard drive crashed. You knew that.

Then I flew to BC and almost (ALMOST!) had to make the five-hour flight without any airplane knitting. Coffee stirrers to the rescue:

(It should be noted that this photo almost gave my friend Chris a heart attack. “You’ll ruin the needles! Can I send you some?” I’ve already replaced the $2.00 bamboo needles I hated, dear, but thank you.)

BC was a mix. Part a wonderful re-introduction to the family and my place in it…

and part people stressing me out about my wedding,  made worse by the fact that the people imposing it had no idea how miserable they were making me.

Then we had a miserable trip home that involved sitting on the tarmac in Toronto for three hours waiting for Air Canada to get their stuff together post-thunderstorm, and then a truly miserable cab ride back to my apartment during which the cab driver ran a red light and then said “I do that a lot, I don’t know why.”

Now we’re both back safely to our homes, but KB’s bike is missing. Stolen? We aren’t yet sure. Besides that, I’ve mysteriously broken my left big toe… which is a problem for many reasons, most notably that I’m short and use my tip-toes a great deal in my day to day life.

(No Pictures, unfortunately, as I forgot the camera cord.)

1) I forgot my fourth double-pointed needle and have been knitting a sock with three DPNs and one plastic coffee stirrer from the airplane.

2) I have a mosquito bite on my thumb. This is what I get for mocking Tristan for getting all the attention from the little creatures.

3) I’m inheriting a Saxony-style spinning wheel that KB’s grandfather built. It’s never been used by a spinner, so his father and I are having a time trying to correct the very few errors that come from his never having spoken to a spinner. Basically, I’m getting a wheel for the cost of a drive band, a replacement scotch brake, and some oil.

4) We are, accidentally, staying with KB’s aunt & uncle and little cousins at the moment. She:  “Hurrah! I thought I’d never get to talk to you, and now I have you captive!”

Also:  They have cats.

5) The more people I meet who have married into Tristan’s family, the more I realize that EVERYONE has to go through the gauntlet of meeting absolutely everyone descended from his great grandfather, and then some, including introduction to the pictures of those who have now died. It’s nice to have some company in the madness.

6) It is SO WARM. We’ve gone swimming in island bays too days in a row. Both days they were like swimming pools. Yes, this is the northern Pacific.

7) I’ve been staying in the bedrooms of several displaced teenagers, and I want to know: am I the only person in the world who still has a twin bed? Really?

(This post was supposed to be part of a series on paper crafts… but was interrupted in the writing by a hard drive crash. Thanks to WordPress’s autosave, this post has been preserved, but I’ve probably lost all the photos I took for the other posts. We’ll see.)

I think it’s safe to say the Kilted Baker has not agonized over how to ask his party to be a part of our wedding in the same way I did. “But what if they say NO?!?” I moaned.

“Nobody is going to say no,” said my Dad. But I didn’t listen. What does he know of the exhaustion, expense, and stress of being in a bridal party? Nothing, that’s what. Nor did he know what a terrible correspondent I am, even with the girls I love so much I wouldn’t dream of having a bridal party without them.

Well, when Kolya left some white pastry boxes behind, I thought to myself (inspired by iHanna’s pizza-box project), “I know! I’ll make POSTCARDS to ask Suki(e) and Steph to be in my bridal party!”

After much agonizing and struggling with my inability to draw, I remembered that I have a color photocopier on my printer. So I took some of my favorite fabric:

And photocopied it.

(Note the rectangle of pastry box for the postcard-base. And the evidence of help.)

Then I did a bit of free-form embroidery on another beloved fabric:

And photocopied that.

Cut the background design to fit your cardboard, and coat the cardboard with mod-podge (available everywhere, even the Wal-Mart craft aisle).

Now that you’ve covered the post-card with the background, feel free to collage whatever you like on top. I cut a valentine-shape and traced it over my photocopied embroidery:

I cut it out and covered the back with mod-podge:

And then gave everything another coat and put it to dry in a cat-safe location:

Suki(e) got her postcard already, so I know they’ll go through both the USPS and Canada Post. Scrapbook your postcards away!

* * * * * *

Writing about Suki(e) inspired me to check out her family’s blog for news of her older sister’s wedding, and I’m happy to tell you that she, her mother, grandmother, and sisters are running a wonderful, informative blog about their own domestic projects. It’s the kind of blog I wish this one would grow up to be… Like Mother, Like Daughter is almost as pleasant as sitting in their kitchen having a cup of tea with the family. But not quite.

So I want to talk to you about cooking. At the moment, KB and I alternate dinner duties based on who has class the next day (this, as with so many things, is going to be more interesting next year when we have more classes together). He’ll cook at his place one night, and then the next place he’ll come over and have dinner at my place. We each get a certain number of food-responsibility free nights for working, and we get to share a meal in the middle of our hectic academic schedules. But there’s a problem: one of us is better at menu planning than the other (he keeps saying he’ll improve), and even I don’t always take the time to plan out what I’m going to make. Which leads to panic, waste, time wasted in the grocery store pondering what to make rather than, say, comparing prices, and a whole lot of pasta.

So: Honestly, I think Mrs. Lawler’s series on menu planning should be required reading both for under-nourished poor graduate students with the bad habit of giving their money to overpriced pubs AND for couples in marriage prep classes. I’m planning on interrogating Tristan about his favorite menus once I meet up with him in BC.

For another view, on the spiritual effects of a well-planned diet, check out Conversion Diary’s post on The Saint Diet.

In April, I finished a pair of socks for my friend Brianna. She’d had a hard year and deserved some pampering, and STR’s colorway “Highland” seemed perfect for a former highland dancer considering going to St. Andrew’s for her PhD.

I really disliked the way the yarn pooled and obstructed pattern work, though, so I decided to break up the color changes with a basic slip-stitch pattern: k1 sl1 all the way around, knit plain, sl1 k1 all the way around, knit plain. Repeat.

I’m rather pleased, and so was the recipient. I need more friends with size-3 feet.

Around the same time, friend Greg finished his trebuchet (‘trebuchette,’ corrects Chris).

This is somewhat more impressive, as it’s not seen as appropriate to bring your wood-working tools for crafting at pub.

(I was recently going through the photos on my computer, and found photos for all kinds of blog posts I’d never written. Lucky you!)

Some people who know me might say that I have a bit of a… fixation on pie making. A complex, perhaps, developed from a simultaneous love of the process (and product!) and fear that my pies will never achieve the technical achievements of those of my mother and grandmother. This has had the effect of making me appear pie-crazed to some of my friends (I may have threatened to anathematize Greg when he said that the filling was more important than the crust) and of creating a dependance on written recipes, whether on stained recipe cards passed down from grandma, or in the Big Book of Cookness (as my former roommate called it.)

So, a few months ago, my friend Brianna’s suggestion of a pie-baking afternoon for her send-off party had me getting wound up into a familiar state. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll get crisco, and more flour, and check the cookbook…what kind did you say you want to make? But, wait! What are you going to do? You can’t eat pie, you’re celiac!”

While I once made a crust-free pumpkin custard for a celiac friend who had to skip the pie I’d made for dessert, I couldn’t see the same trick working with a summer fruit pie. But Brianna had other plans.

“I’ll bring the ingredients,” she said, “you provide the kitchen.”

When she showed up, she showed up with this:

(I don’t have any pictures of the process because a) I was too busy having conniptions and b) I didn’t want to send her back to the West Coast and then around the world thinking I was a crazed woman who took pictures of gluten-free pie crust mix and apples, even though I am the kind of crazed blogging woman who will take pictures of the empty container of gluten-free pie crust mix after her friends have gone.)

And this:

As well as some sweet rice flour (for dusting) some apples (to stretch the filling) and some oatmeal (purpose to be revealed later.)

So she made the crust according to the package instructions (revolutionary! I let somebody else make the crust!) and I peeled and sliced apples and when we’d managed to get the crust in the pie-plate we just poured in the berries, and the apples, and a tiny bit of lemon juice I had, and some sugar– all according to taste and whim–and then Brianna announced she was going to put an oatmeal crumble crust on top.

At this point it was all so easy I just gave up and puttered around offering people iced tea (that’s a whole other blog post) and let her do her crumble-crust thing, so I’m afraid I don’t have detailed notes about what she put in it, though. What I do have, however, is proof that the leftovers which remained behind didn’t go to waste:

(behold, my breakfast!)

Indeed, the pie was so good I  meant to write a post about how you should all make this pie, and make it now, but unfortunately as the recipe is even more helter-skelter than my usual recipes, I can’t quite make that demand (but you should totally try).

So, what does it mean? Am I going to throw out my recipes and proceed on my pie-making path with nary a care? Uhm, my Canada Day why-won’t-this-crust-work-DAMMIT flip out proves that Brianna’s pie wasn’t quite that revolutionary, but it did show me that pie could be purely fun–the smallest of many lessons I’ve taken from our friendship, and certainly the tastiest.